


anywhere else is hollow

by ohjustpeachy



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Fluff, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Greg House, Pining, Sick James Wilson (House M.D.)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28962183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohjustpeachy/pseuds/ohjustpeachy
Summary: Wilson comes home from a conference with a migraine and House is... House.
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 118





	anywhere else is hollow

**Author's Note:**

> I've fallen into a black hole of House MD feelings the last few weeks, and had to do something with them. It's my first time writing for this ship so I'm just hoping it reads okay!

Not that he ever plans on saying so out loud, but House is bored for the entire four days and three nights that Wilson is away at his oncology conference. He’ll even welcome the return of the illustrious hair dryer if only to be able to complain about it again. 

House had not-so-subtly tried to stop Wilson from going at all, of course, but his efforts, like all of his attempts to stop Wilson from doing stupid things without him, had failed, as these things tend to do. 

“You know,” Wilson had sighed, hands on his hips in front of his open suitcase (messy, what without a wife to pack it for him), “believe it or not, some of us actually want to advance in our fields. I _like_ hearing about new research, I _want_ to stay abreast of upcoming clinical trials. It’s what makes me good at my job.”

House snorted. “Right. You’ll be _abreast_ of something alright,” he’d said with a lecherous look that made Wilson roll his eyes. “A fresh crop of loose women who’ll bat their sad doe eyes at you just long enough to get you in bed. Besides, I thought it was your penchant for caring too much and that sparkling bedside manner that makes you good at your job?”

“You’re right, these things are known for their loose women,” Wilson had said balefully, ignoring the rest. “It’s only four days, House, it'll be fine. Worse comes to worst you have to buy your own lunch for a few days.” 

“If you’re drunk when you marry this one we can get it annulled when you get back,” House quipped. 

And with that, Wilson had sighed heavily, thrown a few more things into his haphazardly packed suitcase, and left for his long weekend in Chicago. 

*

Wilson’s back by the time House gets home from Princeton Plainsboro on Sunday night. 

Typically, House does everything he can to avoid working weekends, but given that the alternative was an empty apartment devoid of Wilson’s customary Sunday morning breakfast, he had cut the team a break and gone in at ten o’clock that morning. Their patient of the week was now decidedly _not dying_ , thank you very much, and so House had made his escape. 

If that escape came at the same time Wilson’s flight got in, well, no one knew about that but him. 

Now, it’s going on seven o’clock, his leg is screaming beneath him, and Wilson appears to be snoring away on his couch. 

_Bastard._

House watches as Wilson sleeps, stretched out on the living room couch despite the early hour, his bags and coat and briefcase strewn around the living room like a whirlwind had blown through upon his arrival. 

House rolls his eyes at the sight of it all, nudges Wilson’s knee with his cane. 

“I know you got used to a certain lifestyle between your marriages, but I am not cleaning this up for you,” House says, gesturing vaguely around the room. 

“Shhh,” Wilson groans from his place on the sofa. He’s pale, which is obvious now that House is close enough to see it in the dim light, though he looks vaguely sweaty, too, his hair messy and nearly matted to his forehead.

“Wilson, what the hell is—” House hears the petulance in his voice, only vaguely masking the concern that’s quickly bubbling to the surface.

“Migraine,” Wilson mumbles, still not opening his eyes. 

_Oh._

Wilson grimaces even at House’s small grunt of understanding. House, of course, knows that Wilson’s prone to migraines, though he also knows they’re usually from the stress of telling patients they’re dying, or from spending countless hours in his office mulling over paperwork. House actually hasn’t seen Wilson this bad since he moved in a few months ago. 

“Weather change and lack of sleep?” House guesses, because what _else_ could be triggering him right now?

At Wilson’s unintelligible mumble, House makes his way to the hallway, leaning more heavily on his cane than usual after an unexpected long day at the hospital, and grabs a washcloth from the hall closet. He lets the kitchen tap run cold over the cloth, soaking it completely before he wrings it out, then pulls a beer and a bottle of water from the fridge before returning to the living room. 

“Move,” House says unceremoniously, tapping gently at Wilson’s knee this time. He shifts incrementally, leaving just enough room for House to slide onto the couch, and surprises them both by letting Wilson rest his head in his lap. Up close, he can see the dark, fatigued circles beneath Wilson’s eyes, can see the grease that’s crept into his normally perfect chestnut brown hair, likely thanks to a rushed exit from the hotel this morning and then half a day spent traveling. Wilson always was prickly about getting to the airport _hours_ before he had to. 

“Here,” House says, keeping his voice quiet and neutral enough not to make Wilson’s pounding headache worse. He drapes the washcloth over Wilson’s eyes and forehead, watching as he shudders at the cool contact. 

“Hmph,” Wilson gives a gentle little sigh of relief, and House shakes his head. 

“See, those conferences are bad for your health,” he gloats quietly. “Did you at least get laid?” House asks, though as much as he wants to poke fun at him, he’s not sure he really wants to hear the sordid details of Wilson’s weekend away. Because Wilson _always_ manages to hook up with someone at these things, he knows from experience. 

House tries not to think of the weekend they first met, away at that conference in New Orleans, though his efforts fail almost immediately. The image of Wilson, younger and slimmer and writhing beneath him, cheeks flushed and pupils blown wide, rushing forward, unbidden. That conference had been the first in a series of trysts they allowed themselves every few years, usually after a divorce, and a few drinks, or a particularly painful loss at work, and a few drinks.

It’d been the first, though definitely not the last, in a series of things they do and never talk about. 

_You’d be surprised at the things you can live without._

“Jealous, are we?” Wilson asks quietly. 

House scoffs. “Whatever you have to tell yourself.”

Wilson laughs a little, but winces almost immediately. “This is nice,” he says, surprising both of them. “Having someone to… sit with.” He seems to realize where he is all at once, because his eyes open again and he looks up at House. “You’re sure you don’t mind?” He asks, not saying the words aloud, not drawing attention to the fact that House’s leg must be killing him right now.

House ignores him and adjusts the washcloth over Wilson’s eyes, then brings a hand to his hair, carding through it carefully. He’s learned over the years that Wilson likes touch when he’s feeling especially bad like this; it grounds him, or some such nonsense that House doesn’t understand. Still, he drags his fingernails gently over Wilson’s scalp. 

He doesn’t want to be as pleased as he is when Wilson shivers beneath him at the touch. 

“You’ve had three wives, you’re telling me no one’s ever—” _Taken care of you? Given a shit? Stuck around when you’re like this?_ But House stops himself before he pushes too hard. Wilson’s been gone four days, what’s one more day without giving him shit about his personal life?

“No,” Wilson says softly, voice clipped and pained with the migraine and exhaustion and something else that House doesn’t want to look at too closely. “No one’s ever.”

House nods, knows Wilson can feel the imperceptible movement even if he doesn’t say anything. He sits there, even as his leg continues to throb, his Vicodin across the room in his jacket pocket, even as it grows steadily darker, and his mind drifts to dinner, and Wilson’s breathing evens out on his lap. 

“I didn’t, by the way. Get laid this weekend,” Wilson murmurs, just when House becomes convinced he’d fallen asleep for good. 

He nods. “I’m still not cleaning this shit up for you,” House huffs eventually.


End file.
